J.R. Ward: Lover At Last

Still, the king wasn’t in a position to tell the dandies to go F themselves. Not since Xcor and his Band of Bastards had put a bullet in that royal throat.

Traitors. Fuckers. With any luck, Vishous was going to prove without a shadow of a doubt where that rifle shot had come from, and then the bunch of them could gut those soldiers, put their heads on stakes, and light the corpses on fire.

As well as find out exactly who on the Council was colluding with the new enemy.

Yup, user-friendly was the name of the game now—so one night a week, each of the teams ended up here in the neighborhood he’d grown up in, knocking on doors and looking under beds.

In museum-like houses that gave him the creeps more than any dark underpass downtown.

A tap on his forearm brought his head around. “Yeah?”

I was going to ask you the same thing.

“Huh?”

You stopped here. And have just been staring at…well, you know.

Qhuinn frowned and glanced at the product display. Then lost all train of thought—as well as most of the blood from his head. “Oh, yeah…ah…” Shit, had someone turned up the heat? “Um.”

Baby bottles. Baby formula. Baby bibs and wet naps and Q-tips. Pacifiers. Bottles. Some kind of contraption—

Oh, God, a breast pump.

Qhuinn did a one-eighty so fast, he got faced by a six-foot-high stack of Pampers, bounced back into the land of NUKs, and finally ricocheted out of infant airspace thanks to an A+D rebound. What ever the hell that shit was.

Baby. Baby. Baby—

Oh, good. He’d made it up to the checkout counter.

Shoving a hand into his biker jacket, Qhuinn pulled his wallet free and reached behind for John’s finger food. “Gimme your stuff.”

As the guy started to argue, mouthing the words because his hands were full, Qhuinn snagged the Mountain Dew and Doritos that were clogging up communication.

“There ya go. While he’s ringing us up, you can yell at me properly.”

And what do you know, John’s hands flew through the positions of ASL in various I-got-this combinations.

“Is he deaf?” the guy behind the cash register asked in a stage whisper. As if someone using American Sign Language was some kind of freak.

“No. Blind.”

“Oh.”

As the man kept staring, Qhuinn wanted to pop him. “You going to help us out here or what?”

“Oh…yeah. Hey, you got a tattoo on your face.” Mr. Observant moved slowly, like the bar codes on those bags were creating some kind of wind resistance under his laser reader. “Did you know that?”

Really. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Are you blind, too?”

No filter on this guy. None. “Yeah, I am.”

“Oh, so that’s why your eyes are all weird.”

“Yeah. That’s right.”

Qhuinn took out a twenty and didn’t wait for change—murder was just a liiiiiittle too tempting. Nodding to John, who was also measuring the dear boy for a shroud, Qhuinn went to walk off.

“What about your change?” the man called out.

“I’m deaf, too. I can’t hear you.”

The guy yelled more loudly, “I’ll just keep it then, yeah?”

“Sounds good,” Qhuinn shouted over his shoulder.

Idiot was stage-five stupid. Straight up.

Stepping through the security bar, Qhuinn thought it was a miracle that humans like that got through the day and night at all. And the motherfucker had managed to get his pants on right and operate a cash register.

Would miracles never cease.

As he pushed his way outside, the cold slapped him around, the wind blowing at his hair, snowflakes getting in his nose—

Qhuinn stopped.

Looked left. Looked right.

“What the…where’s my Hummer?”

In his peripheral vision, John’s hands started flying around like he was wondering the same thing. And then the guy pointed down to the freshly fallen snow…and the deep treads of four monster tires that made a fat circle and headed out of the parking lot.

“Goddamn motherfucking shit !” Qhuinn gritted.

And he thought Mr. Observant was the stupid one?

Back at the Brotherhood’s mansion, Blaylock sat on the edge of his bed, his naked body flushed, a sheen of sweat across his chest and shoulders. Between his legs his cock was spent, and his hips were loose from all kinds of bump and grind. At the other end of the spectrum, his breath was squeezed, his flesh requiring just a little more oxygen than his lungs could provide.

So naturally he reached for the pack of Dunhill Reds he kept on his side table.

The sounds of his lover showering in the bath across the way, along with the spicy scent of hand-milled soap, were achingly familiar.

Had it been almost a year now?

Taking out one of the cigarettes, he picked up the vintage Van Cleef & Arpels lighter Sax had given him for his birthday. The thing was made of gold and marked with the firm’s trademark Mystery Set rubies, a 1940s lovely that never failed to please the eye—or do the job.

As the flame jumped up, the shower turned off.

Blay leaned into the lick of fire, inhaled, and flicked the top back down. As always, the slightest hint of lighter fluid lingered, the sweetness mingling with the smoke that he exhaled—

Qhuinn hated smoking.

Had never approved of it.

Which, considering the number of outrageous things the guy made a regular habit out of, seemed downright offensive.

Sex with countless strangers in club bathrooms? Threesomes with males and females? Piercings? Tattoos in various places?

And this guy didn’t “approve” of smoking. Like it was a vile habit no one in his right mind would bother with.

In the bathroom, the hair dryer he and Sax shared went on, and Blay could imagine that blond hair he had just grabbed onto and pulled back hard flowing in the artificial breeze, catching the light, shining with highlights that were natural.

Saxton was beautiful, all smooth skin and sinewy body and perfect taste.

God, the clothes in that wardrobe of his. Amazing. Like the Great Gatsby had jumped out of the pages of the novel, gone down to Fifth Avenue, and bought out whole blocks of haute couture.

Qhuinn was never like that. He wore Hanes T-shirts and fatigues or leathers, and still sported the same biker jacket he’d had from just after his transition. No Ferragamos or Ballys for him; New Rocks with soles the size of truck tires. Hair? Brushed if it was lucky. Cologne? Gunpowder and orgasms.

Hell, in all the years Blay had known the guy—and it had been since birth practically—he’d never seen Qhuinn in a suit.

One had to wonder if the guy knew that tuxedos could be owned, not just rented.

If Saxton was the picture-perfect aristocrat, Qhuinn was a straight-up thug—

“Here. Tap your ashes in this.”

Blay jerked his head up. Saxton was naked, perfectly coiffed and scented with Cool Water—and holding out the heavy Baccarat ashtray he’d bought as a summer solstice gift. It was also from the forties, and weighed as much as a bowling ball.

Blay complied, taking the thing and balancing it in the palm of his hand. “Are you off to work?”

Like that wasn’t obvious?

“Indeed.”

Saxton turned away and flashed a spectacular ass as he went to the closet. Technically, the guy was supposed to be living next door in one of the vacant guest rooms, but over time his clothes had migrated in here.

He didn’t mind the smoking. Even shared every once in a while after a particularly energetic…exchange, as it were.

“How’s it going?” Blay said on an exhale. “Your secret assignment, that is.”

“Rather well. I’m almost finished.”

“Does that mean you can finally tell me what it’s all been about?”